Thursday 8th October 2009 - Off to the State Capital

I'm seccumbing to Americans' sense of distance. I've exhausted the seams of information in New Phillly, so I fancy a trip to the Ohio Historical Society in the Capital, Columbus. Dulcie tells me it's only 120 miles away, and if I let her take me on the interstate, it'll only take a couple of hours. Who knows what I'll find.
The trip reminds me how late in the year it is: there are lots of yellows and reds in the trees.
When we get there, I reveal the actual address we're after. The Ohio Historical Society hangs out at the intersection of Interstate 71 and !7th Avenue (or is that ..). When I tell Dulcie to take us there, she asks if I mean 'I 70 and 17th Ave N' or 'I 70 and 17th Ave S'. Knowing what I know about American street-naming conventions, I reckon these could be on opposite sides of Columbus. But all I can do is mentally toss a coin: and 'N' turns out to be the right choice.
The Ohio Historical Society has a very grand building, carved out of the State Fairground. It also has a trap carpark: it will let you in, but you have to pay to get out. And I find the library doesn't open for an hour, and the 'snackbar' is a set of machines selling concentrated calories. So lunch is a trip across an interstate junction on foot.
Since we're out in the suburbs, all that's available is McDonalds, also a rich source of calories. I am reduced to deconstructing the meal, and eating selectively. The young men at the next table are all dressed very casually, except that they all have an automatic pistols on their belts. I assume they are policemen, but, as usual, I can't quite get over my morbid fascination with naked guns.
The restaurant is also full of cowboys, in hats and boots, and wearing spurs: real jangly spurs, with pointy bits on them. Turns out the Fairground is hosting the All-American Quarter Horse Congress. It sounds simultaneously macabre and vulgar, an attempt to mate portions of horses. But actually, quarter horses are the most popular breed in America. The quarter horse is the quintessential cowboy horse. They get there name from their special gift, the speed at which they can run a quarter mile. The best of them can do it in little more than 20 seconds.

When I got back to the Historical Society, it did prove a worthwhile journey. They had the 1880 Census on microfilm, and when I finally found Glasgow, there were all the interesting names, as well as ages, who they were living with, how old their children were, and where the children were born. And the machines provided copies at a quarter a page.

When it was time to go, I discovered the weather had closed in: it was raining with a vengeance. The society does not allow bags into the archives (a sad comment on some historians). As I was about to drive off, I realised my bag was still in the locker on the third floor. When I got back to the third floor, I realised the locker key was in my coat in the car. By the time I was back in the car reunited with my bag, I was pretty wet.
The journey back took a long time, and a lot of effort. Not the best way to end an otherwise enjoyable day. [This is basically why there was no write-up yesterday, as well as there being not much to say to make it worth the effort]
As I got close to New Philly, the weather began to clear. And I noticed an odd sign. At the interstate junctions, there are clusters of what might be called 'mercat' adverts. The restaurants and gas stations vie with each other to put up the tallest sign. At the New Philly exit, close to where I am staying, there is a "Texas" saloon and steakhouse. But some of the lights had failed on its sign, probably because of the weather. It now read, simply "TE AS". I had visions of elderly British tourists, enticed off the freeway in hopes of clotted cream and strawberry jam, and instead finding themselves in a raucous world of large beers and even larger steaks.